


The Properties of Barium

by Asher_2179



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, PTSD, Someone save my soft man, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 18:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15564174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asher_2179/pseuds/Asher_2179
Summary: An interlude on Titan





	The Properties of Barium

**Author's Note:**

> I love this man with my whole arse.

Trauma has a hell of a sense of comedic timing. That’s how post-traumatic stress works, of course (and Tony would know, he’s been dealing with it for a full decade now). PTSD shows up in good times and bad.

Good times like; he’s lying in bed with Pep, or shooting the shit with Rhodey ... sitting on the couch watching Skyfall and thinking about how he should wear a tux more often ...

Bad times like, well, like right now for example. When he’s standing on a planet fuck-knows-how many hundreds of thousands of miles from home, listening to the insane chatter of a spaceman from Missouri explaining a plan to kill a genocidal alien.

It starts with a chill up his spine. Like a cold fingertip pressing against the vertebrae. He knows it’s the tip of an episode, because the climate on whatever-the-fuck planet they’re on is, all things considered, not entirely unpleasant. Warm. A dry breeze with a hint of death. If it weren’t for the fact they were clearly standing in the ashes of the civilisation’s destruction, it could have been almost pleasant.

Tony feels the tickle of those icy fingers at the base of his spine and Quill’s voice fades out, some. He takes a deep breath in and tries to let it out slowly, without anyone noticing. He absent-mindedly taps the reactor as he counts backwards from ten.

_Ten .. nine .. eight .._

He nods sharply as they agree on the plan, break from the huddle, take a moment to compose themselves. He turns to look at some point on the orange-tinted horizon and he can hear the breath hissing in the back of his throat as he lets it out in a controlled stream. That feeling, that feeling of dread is creeping back in. Unknowable and indescribable, hot and heavy in his stomach, pulsing in the fibre of his bones and throbbing in his temples. It heats him from the inside out, skimming and buzzing across his skin, creeping up his neck in a hot flush, too hot, insulated in the suit, like he’s roasting.

He knows it’s Thanos.

For so many years it didn’t have a name, just ... a feeling. But as soon as Bruce stared at him in Strange’s ( _house?_ ) building, it clicked into place.

_“He sent Loki. The attack on New York. That’s him.”_

Of course.

_Seven .. six.._

New York.

The Worm hole.

Afghanistan. Yinsen. Obadiah, Hammer, Staten Island Ferry, Sokovia, Vanko Rose Hill Pepper Happy RhodeyUltronCoulsonLoki

... am Ironman

... we have a

... put a few miles on his soul

... hold still you little

... did you _know_

... _you to be better_

... peace in our time

_FivefourTHREETWOONE_

He coughs out the breath, and sucks another gasping one in.

 _Keepittogetherkeepittogetherkeepittogether_.

If he had the headpiece up it would show him that his heart rate is elevated, but he doesn’t _need_ the suit to fucking tell him, not when it feels like his chest is going to explode open like something the kid would no doubt recognise from his seemingly endless pop-culture database.

 _Tap tap tap_ on the reactor, his iron-encased fingers rattles a tattoo on his chest, as he feels beads of sweat gather at the nape of his neck, a feverish heat now that is threatening to swamp him. The edges of his vision cloud out a little and his stomach twists like a hot pit of snakes.

He moves, paces, walks away from the group.

It’s not a _bad_ plan, if he’s honest with himself. It’s just ... well, the fate of the known and unknown galaxy rests in their hands, and also, Strange has one of the stones hanging around his neck like the jewel of the sea or somesuch shit, and ... he’s got a teenager from Queens who came from, _Christ_ , he said a field trip didn’t he? _A field trip!_ Who is now shouldering this unholy burden, and Tony admitted to him, not even that _long_ ago, that if he were to die that his death would be on _him_.

But, it’s a good plan, right?

Air, he needs some air. A breeze will do it. Cool him down.

Strange has dropped the Svengali thing and is sitting pensively on a pile of rubble, scratching a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. He eyes Tony off and something about the clarity in those icy eyes, coupled with the fact that it’s common knowledge you just can’t trust someone with cheekbones that sharp, makes it difficult to hold his gaze. Tony lets out what he hopes sounds like an exasperated huff, ( _“These guys, amiright?”_ ) but it catches at the end and comes out too much like a choking kind of gasp.

The doctor’s eyebrow arches up and, _oh shit_ , he’s onto him. Tony looks to the side and sees the kid, and _shit you not_ , that makes it worse. He’s smiling and talking easily with Mantis ( _how does he do that? Effortlessly charm everyone? Even alien bug ladies_ ) and his wholesome, trusting face is just too much for Tony right now.

It’s too much, and

...oh _shit_ , it’s coming, it’s happening.

He walks stiffly past Strange, hiking up some of the debris, his back to their merry band of idiots, and he’s panting now, heart hammering against the chest piece of the suit and _Jesus_ _Christ_ , this might actually be it, he might actually have a heart attack right here.

He focuses on a point in the distance, some other random bit of debris, a building? A former structure of some kind? He refuses to let his vision cloud it out. He counts his breaths and rattles off the properties of chemical elements to focus his mind, staring at the broken jut of rubble.

_”...Barium. Atomic number: 56. Atomic mass: 137.32... ”_

Good.

_“...Halfnium. Atomic number: 72. Atomic mass: 178.49. Group 4, period 6. Transition metal...”_

Nice.

His breathing is evening out and the heat creeping up through the chest piece is simmering down but his heart, _dammit_ , is still jackhammering away. His chest is sill tight. His stomach still feels like it’s going to push up into his throat and out his mouth in a hot mess.

He’s halfway through the properties of tungsten when - _Jesus_ \- he feels a hand clasp on his shoulder.

“Tony.”

He turns his head sharply, and Strange meets his gaze with a startling intensity given their proximity.

“You’re having a panic attack,” He says simply.

_Well, fuck, don’t call me on it._

He shoves his hand away, tilts forward, leaning heavily on his knees, chasing his breath just as it runs away from him again. _Godammit_.

“Calm yourself. We need you,” the doctor tells him. It’s not said to flatter him. It’s statement of fact, nothing more. Tony can respect that. He pushes himself up, hand on his hip.

“I’m fine. Top notch,” He says, his voice just this side of normal.

Strange doesn’t say anything.

They stand in silence for a few moments. He’s cooled some, his breath coming back to him, but knows his pulse is thrumming in his neck, probably visible, most definitely faster than usual for someone of his not unsubstantial years. And his years, here, on this orange hued shitheap of planet with the perpetual smell of destruction lingering in the air, _oh_ , he feels _every one_ those years.

He swallows thickly, realising suddenly, and quite hopelessly, that he is parched.

_Shit outta luck._

“So whaddya think Doc. Our guys here up to it?”

It seems inappropriately chipper, like they’re going in for a game of baseball and not, you know, fighting for the existence of half of the galaxy.

“This is the only way,” Strange replies.

_God he plays it close to the chest._

“Right. Well... Guess they’re as good as we got, then.”

He looks down at Pete, talking animatedly to Quill, and Mantis who is bounding up and down in the skewed gravity, as the big guy ( _Drox?_ ) looks on thoughtfully.

Sure. Yeah.

It’s a good plan.

_Isn’t it?_

**Author's Note:**

> I love the realm of possibilities for interaction between two acerbic geniuses (Stark and Strange) but I find the latter incredibly hard to write, he comes off reading like a snide dickhead in my grubby paws, losing his goodness. Any tips or recommendations on writing him are much appreciated.


End file.
